


Familiar Shades

by Skalidra



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Consent Issues, Earth-3, Injury Recovery, M/M, Manipulation, Mirror Universe, Pseudo-Incest, Trust Issues, not a threesome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:54:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26832514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: The face is different. Older. The streak of white hair in the black is new, but the unruly curl of his bangs is all too familiar. The man on the ground is young, still, but what a difference four or five years makes on a face that looks barely even twenty."Get— Getaway," the man snarls, thick and choked.The voice is deeper, come into its own, but that Gotham-streets accent is unmistakable.Bruce finds himself kneeling, breathing, "Jason," without thinking about it, for once in his life.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Jason Todd, Jason Todd/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 76
Kudos: 454





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome! I just had a thought and decided to scribble it. I do love my Earth-3 world, and I wanted to write something involving a real universe swap, putting together characters from each world. Sort of in the spirit of the Countdown story where Jason meets the alternate-Bruce that's wiped out all criminal activity on his world. (This is, of course, Bruce as Owlman because Thomas is not my jam.) So, naturally, Jason angst. Have fun!

There are things Bruce expects to see on any given night, and then there are things he doesn't. The night vision in his helmet picks up the man in the alley easily enough, staggering up against a wall as if drunk, except that drunks usually clutch their stomachs, not their throats. Some victim or another, most likely, and nothing Bruce would normally care to concern himself with, but before he can entirely dismiss it he picks up the shape of body armor. Thigh holsters. Heavy combat boots.

Hm.

He slips into the alley, picking out the traces of a blood trail the man is leaving, speckled along the floor. It leads back to… Interesting.

From above, that building certainly didn't look like it had just been blown apart. Collapsed infrastructure, still smoking faintly, from a blast to the upper floors. Interesting that he didn't hear any sort of an explosion, either. Some sort of illusion? He does so hate dealing with magic, but this seems… Different. No, it's not simply an illusion. An illusion might hide the destruction of one building, but to change the skyline behind it? Unlikely.

Returning his attention to the injured man reassures him that the rest of the city seems yet unchanged, at least from this angle. He follows, keeping his steps silent. The man's relatively tall, and well built; clearly well muscled. The armor doesn't match anything he's familiar with, and it bears no signs of allegiance, far as he sees. He was certainly heavily armed at one point, however. There's a knife sheathed at one thigh, and an empty holster for a gun on the other. Spots for two other guns as well, near the small of his back, but no actual weaponry. The armor shows signs of damage, and of being caught up in that explosion. He's been in quite a fight.

His legs give out. It's with a crash that he falls against the wall, knocking a stray can rolling as he collapses to the ground. Bruce considers for a moment before approaching, extending the claws on his gauntlets and keeping his step light. The man's still breathing, still holding onto his neck with tight desperation as he lies there. It isn't until he's barely five feet away that the man reacts, head jerking up with a snarl already on his lips, joining the liquid shine of blood where it's trailed down over his jaw.

Bruce feels himself freeze in ways he hasn't in years.

The face is different. Older. The streak of white hair in the black is new, but the unruly curl of his bangs is all too familiar. The man on the ground is young, still, but what a difference four or five years makes on a face that looks barely even twenty.

"Get— Get _away_ ," the man snarls, thick and choked.

The voice is deeper, come into its own, but that Gotham-streets accent is unmistakable.

Bruce finds himself kneeling, breathing, " _Jason_ ," without thinking about it, for once in his life.

Sea-green eyes blink up at him, confusion overtaking anger. They aren't quite the shade he remembers, but the alley's dark, and he's more caught now by the clearly soaked glove and shoulder of whatever uniform his boy is in.

He reaches forward, ignoring the protesting, "Don't—" to peel the clutching hand away. His other hand curls around the back of Jason's skull, tilting his head to give him a better look at his neck. There's a wound there, a dark slash across the side of his throat still sluggishly pumping fresh waves of blood to coat what little skin isn't already covered in it. Fatal, without help.

(He remembers another ragged wound on a collapsed boy, caused by something hooked and metal that tore at flesh as much as shattered bone. This wakes the same _rage_.)

Jason makes a breathless, pained sound, wrist tugging weakly at his grip, head heavy where it lies in his hand. "Don't," he repeats, almost slurred, now. Blood loss. He doesn't have much longer unless the wound is closed.

A part of Bruce's mind tells him that this feels all too convenient. Running across an aged version of his murdered boy in an alley? Wounded? Needing help? There aren't many things in the world that could get past his guard, and this could be a very targeted play at taking advantage of one of his few weaknesses. This man could be an imposter. A trap.

Well, then he'll have to kill him. And whoever sent him, of course; slowly, and painfully.

But if there is a possibility that the universe has given him back his boy…

"It's alright," Bruce murmurs, shifting to pull Jason's form closer, lifting a knee to brace behind his back and keep him propped up. "I have you."

He shouts, when Bruce cauterizes the slash. Jerks and grabs at his arm with relatively impressive strength. Not any match for his suit's potential, but more than respectable. There's no shift of his form, or waver, and when his eyes roll up and he slumps into Bruce's chest, hand dropping limp, nothing changes. Likely not a shapeshifter, then.

He takes a moment he shouldn't to trace the slack curve of his boy's jaw, the faint ghost of a scar near one lip. His claw snags on the uneven skin.

He'll have to run tests.

He sheaths his claws and activates the coms with a tap of his finger. "A, send the car to my location. I'm bringing back a guest; he'll need medical attention."

_"On its way, sir. Should I be preparing a guest bedroom, or a cell?"_

Jason's chest rises and falls in stutters, head falling against his shoulder as he lifts him.

"Treatment first. Then we'll see."

* * *

Slit throat. Cracked ribs. Minor internal bleeding. Partial hearing damage, likely from the explosion. Heavy bruising. Several areas of minorly burnt skin, also likely from the explosion.

The DNA matches his records. As do fingerprints, blood type, and every other method he can think of to track identity. The eyes are a slightly different shade, but close enough to what his records and memory indicate that he's inclined to dismiss the slight difference as simply a result of maturation, or possibly a result of whatever it is that's resulted in his murdered protégé lying on a table in front of him, apparently a normal, living, human. Resurrections of one type or another aren't unheard of, but they're not common, either.

Bruce taps his fingers at the edge of the table, letting his gaze linger on the scarring underneath the bruises. He's not familiar with any of it, and none of it is older than a few years, as if something wiped him clean and began again.

A clone, maybe? Maybe there was some scrap of DNA at the site of his boy's murder that he missed. He wouldn't put it past his enemies to send him a copy of Jason to slip in under his defenses, or simply to distract him. There are only one or two suspects for such a tactic, though; not many have lived through discovering his identity, and none of his 'allies' could do it without him catching wind.

Nightingale's already reported back that the alley seems to be returned to normal. No trace of the destroyed building, or a different skyline, or anything odd. Apart from the sudden appearance of a blood trail, without an apparent beginning.

He should send Black Talon or Alfred to exhume the site of Jason's burial, but… No. He'll do that himself, if necessary.

The possibilities of illusion, magic, or some form of targeted hallucination still exist, but there is one theory that fits more angles than any of them.

An alternate universe. He's been exploring potential methods of interdimensional travel recently; it's not as unlikely as it could be that some experiment worked in a way not anticipated and opened a door to a different version of his Jason. He couldn't begin to guess at why, but it would explain the alternate Gotham that he saw, and Jason's apparent spontaneous 'appearance' in the alley.

Bruce refuses to settle on any theory until he has more facts.

Whatever the case, Jason should wake soon enough. The color's mostly returned to his cheeks, post transfusion, and the monitors are already showing signs of impending wakefulness. Imposter or not, this Jason has a similar level of tolerance to medication as any of his previous Talons. He was trained, and inundated against at least the common sedatives. It won't be long.

He waits another seventeen minutes before there's a sudden, sharper breath, and Jason's eyelids flutter slightly. Then another, deeper breath, hitched at the end. He grimaces even before his eyes finish opening, his breathing settling into something shallower (accommodating for the ribs, most likely). It only takes a single pass of his gaze, even half-lidded and hazed as it is, to find where Bruce is standing near the foot of the bed.

Immediately he jerks, moves as if to roll off the table and away, were it not for the restraints securing his wrists and ankles that yank him to a halt. He wheezes out a breath, eyes widening as his gaze darts to the cuffs. Padded, leather. They'll hold well enough unless his guest is more than he appears. Judging by how he's pulling at them, he isn't. At least, not so far.

"No," Jason rasps, pulling hard enough the table rattles. "No. Let me _out!_ "

Bruce eyes the way his chest is starting to heave, voice picking up into something more like a shout. He's not normally against his guests harming themselves in their own panic, but this time is different.

"Careful," he says, the smoother, colder voice of Owlman coming easy to his tongue. "You have two cracked ribs; I wouldn't recommend aggravating them."

Jason stills almost instantly, but seemingly more because of just his voice than any of the words. Interesting.

It's not his usual interrogation tactics, but Bruce steps forward regardless. Two steps takes him to the head of the table, to look right down at those familiar, wide blue-green eyes, and the bruising tainting the pale skin on his jaw. There's stubble there. Just a touch. His Jason never got old enough to grow any kind of stubble.

He lifts a hand to touch it, grazing the pads of his gloved fingertips over the gentle curve of his boy's hairline, and down along the angle of his jaw. Jason's breath hitches, loud enough to be audible even with his suit's hearing enhancements currently disabled. The eyes squeeze shut a moment, a tear escaping the corner of the eye closest to his hand. Bruce wipes it away without thought, and Jason makes a sharp, wounded noise and shudders, eyes wide and wild.

There's a youthful crack to that voice when it asks, "Bruce…?"

He shuts away the ache of his chest. If it's any true version of his boy, he'll understand why Bruce needs to be careful about his identity. "Who is it you think I am, boy?"

"What?" Jason pulls at the restraints, eyes blinking once. Twice. The haze clears from his eyes somewhat as he apparently actually looks at what Bruce is wearing. "You're—” A thick swallow, gaze darting off to the side to sweep around the cave. Not much is visible from here, of course. Nothing incriminating. "Where am I? What…?"

He traces a finger down under his boy's chin, lightly tilting it up and immediately getting his focus back. "If you are who you appear to be, you should know that, shouldn't you? You tell me."

He feels the bob of another swallow, but something hardens in Jason's eyes. "You first," he challenges.

Hm. Smart, and loyal. Refusing to give up information that could be used against them without having his own confirmation that Bruce is an ally. Or something close enough to one, anyway. Maybe it really is his boy.

"If you insist." He considers, for a few moments, what details might be the same across different universes. Assuming that's the case at all. "Jason Peter Todd. When you were twelve, you tried to steal the tires off my car. I caught you in the act." He pauses long enough to trace his finger down the length of Jason's throat, before pulling away. "I've matched your DNA, but I haven't dug up your grave yet."

Maybe it would be nonsensical, to someone else. Or confusing, at least. The Jason lying on the table doesn't react with confusion. There's pain, anger, grief, all in a flash. And then it hardens.

"Bruce Wayne," his boy answers, meeting his challenge. "This is the cave system under Wayne manor. You—"

There's a pause, where hesitation reigns over Jason's face, before it twists into something dark and angry. Something that reminds him of his Jason, more than anything.

"You hate guns," is what comes out of those sneering lips, pointed and vicious. The laugh that comes after is rough, and filled with the kind of bitter hatred it truly takes years to build."You say they're not meant for what we do, you say they're just made to _kill_. But the truth is you're still traumatized; pressing your own made up set of rules on the rest of us to try and rationalize your fear. All you are is _afraid_."

The words hang in the air as an accusation, obviously meant to gut him. Which would make more sense if they weren't completely and utterly wrong. Him? Afraid of firearms? The idea is laughable. No one who has even a passing knowledge of him would think otherwise. No one trying to fool him would try with such a ridiculous falsehood, either. It would take an idiot of the highest degree to make up a lie like that, and an idiot like that wouldn't have been able to clone, impersonate, or resurrect his son.

Another universe, then.

He lifts his hands to his helm, thumbing the catches to let it come free and pulling it from his head. "I must be a very different person on your world," he comments, setting it on the table near Jason's thigh, letting his mouth draw into a smirk as he looks back up. "Afraid of guns, hm? Seems inconvenient."

"I—" Jason stares at him as if he's just yanked a rug out from beneath his feet, lost and startled. "Who are you?" His gaze flicks away for a moment, out towards the rest of the cave. "How am I—? How am I here?" Then anger, sharp and sudden and with all the whiplash of the recently wounded. "Whatever fucking game this is—"

"No game," he interrupts, calmly. "I found you in the alley, do you remember that?" He waits for a hesitant nod. "Good. You didn't show any signs of a concussion but I wouldn't be surprised."

Easy enough to distract from that line of questioning, to pull the gauntlet from one of his hands and then raise it to gently trace the edges of a spread of blackening bruises near his right pectoral. Jason flinches; couldn't be from pain, his touch was barely even a brush of fingers. He lifts his hand, comes to touch the very edge of the bandage over the side of his throat. The flinch is more pronounced this time, eyes slipping back to that wide, wild look, breath audibly quickening. Fear. Desperation.

Bruce feels that anger rekindle itself in his chest. This may not be _his_ Jason, but it's his boy nonetheless. Older, bitter, angrier, but _his_.

Someone tried to kill him. Nearly succeeded.

He traces a thumb along the edge of the bandage once more before lifting his gaze to Jason's. "Who did this to you?"

He keeps his voice calm, but it's not enough to stop the shudder that jerks Jason's shoulders off the table and rattles the chains of the cuffs. He shifts and pulls like he wants out, breathing picking up, chest rising sharp and fast enough it must be aggravating those injured ribs. Bruce doesn't think that pain has anything to do with the wetness in his eyes, though.

His teeth flash and bare for just a moment before parting around two words Bruce doesn't remotely expect.

" _You_ did."

Bruce is unaccustomed to being surprised. His hand stills as his mind, for moments that seem to stretch out far longer than they should, struggles to comprehend that simple phrase.

He did this? Impossible. He couldn't.

Understanding comes as swift as the kiss of a knife. Of course, not him, but _him_. The other version of him on this Jason's world, presumably. His commander? Father? He would have called his own Jason his son and protege, among other things, but he can't assume the same is true for that other Bruce Wayne. There's a connection there, absolutely, but it may not be the same as what they had in this world. He'd be stupid to assume that there aren't differences between their worlds, clearly.

What he _can_ assume is that something happened between them. Something that resulted in a slit throat, and all the grieving, bitter fury and fear of broken trust. What version of himself would come so close to killing a useful ally? Particularly one that clearly trusted him. (Particularly one like _Jason_.)

Bruce takes a short breath, shutting the anger down to keep his expression under control. Then he takes another look at that furious, desperate pain on Jason's face. Not his Jason, and he should remember that; just another version. Similar, though. He can see in this Jason the growth of the anger that was in his, the anger he carefully cultivated and nurtured to aim towards his enemies. He was vicious and talented, but always quick to come to his side. Loyal, protective… If any of that is true of this Jason, the other version of him was a fool to drive him away.

Though, perhaps his alternate self's mistake could be to his advantage.

He lets the anger show, instead. Lets it deepen his voice. " _Never_."

It's probably not the pain of his injuries that makes Jason's breath catch and his eyes widen. Or his breath shake, when he draws it.

"Don't," his boy says, expression cracking along the edges, like a cup about to shatter. The wetness in his eyes threatens to become tears with each trembling blink. His voice shakes as much as his breath.

He shifts to cup his hand over the wrap of bandages on his throat. Squeezes his grip, gently enough not to injure, hard enough that the wince it draws sends the tears sliding down from the corner of his boy's eyes. "Never," he repeats, and watches the cracks become chasms.

The first sob wrenches out of his throat as if it ripped through any attempt to stop it, painful and raw sounding. It’s easy to undo the cuffs with one hand, and gather Jason to him with the other. Wrap an arm around his back and cup the back of his head with the other to bring it down to his shoulder. There are strained protests between the sobs, fists rebounding off his armor — well-aimed but weak — as soon as he frees them. He doesn't let any of that dissuade him, merely strokes his hand over Jason's back and holds him close.

"It's alright," he murmurs, running his fingers through the familiar black hair. "It's alright."

Jason cries all the harder.

Loyalty is such an easy thing to manipulate. Bruce can get true answers later, when Jason's calmed down enough to speak with him, but until then he may as well capitalize on someone else's mistake. Maybe he could even discover what it was that brought this Jason back, and use it to revive his own.

He passes his fingers through that new, fascinating white streak. Considers that, as Jason leans into him, fingernails catching on the seams in his armor and clinging there.

"Everything's going to be alright, son. You're safe here."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! Got another chapter of manipulation, for you, this time featuring just a little bit of Alfred and Dick, too. Enjoy!

Jason — or, the boy not actually his son — cries for a long time. Long enough for the tears to dry and turn to intermittent shudders, breath evolving from broken sobs to hitching gasps. Bruce murmurs reassurances and promises he doubts he'll keep, cradling the boy's head against his shoulder and stroking the fine hairs at the back of his neck, waiting for him to calm. He considers, as he does.

A fear of firearms, hm? It doesn't take half the genius he has to figure why an alternate version of himself might have trauma related to firearms, assuming that their pasts are similar, and obviously at least some of it is. He still found Jason in that world, after all. So, his other self's parents died, same as his, but for some reason instead of becoming himself, he fell on a different path.

What was it his boy said…? 'They're not meant for what we do,' and, 'They're just made to kill.'

So then, whatever the other version of himself does, it doesn't involve killing. But it does involve the same sort of skills that he employs himself, judging by the gear and clothing that Jason showed up in, and the bruising patterns on him. Someone that doesn't kill, but has specialized gear, and at least some level of combat experience. Likely high levels of it, considering that when Jason struggled he did so with well-aimed strikes, and yet the wounds on him suggest he was soundly beaten all the same. None of it fatal, though, apart from that slash on his neck. None of it even crippling, as a matter of fact.

Well, doesn't that just sound a lot like some people he knows of here in his own world? _Heroes_.

Interesting theory. Bruce can see the potential path, he thinks. A _weak_ version of himself, traumatized instead of infuriated, desperate to enact control but refusing to take the steps that would ensure it, and a son that sees that weakness and refuses to adhere to it. His Jason: stubborn, furious, betrayed by a father and cast aside…

He can work with that.

Eventually, Jason's breathing steadies. His hands loosen, gripping at the edges of his armor instead of clinging, and his weight rests heavily against Bruce's chest. Not asleep, but exhausted, certainly. Not surprising.

"Are you alright?" he asks, keeping his voice low and comforting, the cradle of his hand at the back of Jason's skull gentle.

His boy takes a deep breath, shifts and then pulls back with purpose, hesitant as it is. There's a part of him that wants to hold on, but he tamps it down and allows Jason to sit back and straighten up, a hand rising to wipe at his eyes. He keeps only one touch at Jason's thigh, solid enough to ground but light enough to be pulled away from.

"Yeah." His voice is rough. Tired. Deeper than his son's ever got to be. "I'm okay."

He's not, but that could be useful.

Bruce hums, carefully adjusting the sound to be acknowledging, but not believing. By how his boy flinches, just slightly, it's a tone he's very familiar with. He doesn't press. "I'd like to have Alfred look you over again, now that you're awake. Is that okay with you?"

There's a flicker of Jason's gaze up to meet his eyes. A flare of hope and surprise wrapped together, before it's shut away. He just nods.

"Alright." He squeezes the thigh beneath his hand gently enough it shouldn't do more than ache. "I'll bring you some water."

The relief is as easy to read as it was to predict. That many tears, plus the fight and the explosion? Dehydration is an easy guess, and it's not unlikely that some combination of the tears and the potential head wounds has conjured up a headache. Somehow, painkillers like those he's been given never seem to touch headaches.

"Thank you," his boy murmurs.

Another soft squeeze, and he pulls away. He takes his helmet from the edge of the table where he set it down and heads out of the medical area, circling around the dividers that separate it from the rest of the cave. Alfred is just outside, lingering close enough he likely heard at least some of the conversation. Across the room, at the computers, Dick is waiting, too. Alfred must have commed him to tell him to come in silently, because Bruce doesn't recall hearing the bike enter. Good.

"So, sir?" Alfred's tone is carefully quiet, ensuring that no one will hear but them. Restrained as well, for now. As much as he was shaken by the sight of their lost boy, Bruce knows if necessary he would have been the first to strike. A simple overdose of sedative to give a quiet, clean death and spare seeing suffering reflected on the face of someone they both cared for.

Bruce considers his words for a quiet moment. "Another universe," he settles on. "He's not ours."

They both knew it was unlikely, but still there's the faintest moment of fresh loss in Alfred's eyes. But he shuts them, breathes in, and it vanishes. "I see. A threat?"

He shakes his head. "I don't think so. He was in a fight with his version of me before he was pulled to our world. Take a look at him; see what information you can get about why that happened. He seems to know a version of you, and I think he'll talk to you."

"As you wish, sir."

"Thank you. I'll talk to Dick."

Alfred nods, gathering himself for one moment before he heads for the medical area. Bruce leaves him to it, and goes to meet Dick. He's still suited, domino mask over his eyes and a hand toying with the blade at his left thigh. He stays still, waiting till Bruce comes up to him, dropping his helmet on the console. Up on the screen is the feed from the security monitors, and the one on the medical bay is centered and enlarged. Sound's off, but it would be more than enough for Dick to get an idea of what happened.

"Not our Jason, right?" he says, after a moment. Tense and just a little angry, unlike Alfred's reaction. Dick would carve apart an imposter, not give them the dignity of death by sedative.

Bruce stays standing by the chair, resting a hand at its back, instead of sitting. "No. My best guess is he's from an alternate universe. He knows versions of us, or Alfred and me, at least." He watches Jason sit still as Alfred approaches, and the telling way his body language opens as soon as Alfred's hand touches his shoulder, leaving him leaning slightly towards the touch. Yes, he thought so. "He'll stay with us for now. I'd like more information about where he's from."

Dick waits for a moment, but then prompts, "Why? What's interesting about it?"

He lets his amusement out in a breath, letting the very corner of his mouth curl a fraction. "I think we're _heroes_ in his world. He talked about his version of me being afraid of firearms." He looks over at the snort, meeting Dick's gaze and humming agreement. "But apparently I'm also the one that slit his throat. I'd like to know the story."

The hand comes off of the blade's hilt, and Dick steps closer, turning to look at the screen. "And?" he asks, because as much as Bruce knows his eldest son, Dick knows him, too. "What else?"

He turns his head and looks back at the monitor. Alfred has his face tilted upwards, small pen-light testing pupillary response, seems like. A version of his son, healthy and _alive_ , when his own sits in the ground.

"He died in that world, too." There's a sharp silence from Dick, without even an inhalation to break it. His hand tightens on the back of the chair. "I want to know how he came back."

Dick breathes out. He doesn't need it said to understand what Bruce means; he never has. "What do you need me to do?"

* * *

Jason feels adrift. Everything is… different, but just similar enough to feel familiar in the oddest way. Even past the haze of the painkillers in his system he can feel the ache of his ribs and the burn at the side of his throat. It's so familiar to be sitting here on the padded, steel cot of the Cave's medical section. Smaller than he remembers, but he hasn't been here since he was a kid. No, he hasn't been _here_ at all.

Alfred looks just the same. Sounds the same. Calls him 'my boy' with a small, sad smile. If he had any tears left, Jason's pretty sure he'd be crying again. God, he's missed Alfred. And it's _not_ Alfred, he knows that, but it's hard to keep that in mind with the familiar voice asking him soft questions, checking bandages and walking him through a basic medical appraisal.

It's easier to keep the division in his mind when it comes to Bruce. Dark metal armor, a cape made to resemble feathers, not the wings of a bat, and a helmet instead of a cowl. But the face and the eyes are just the same, and for just a few minutes he could cry, and _hurt_ , and pretend that it was actually his Bruce holding him, promising to never hurt him, to protect him, to take care of him. Like back when he was a kid, waking up screaming from nightmares and having Bruce there to hold him until he fell back asleep.

Jason swallows, gritting his teeth against the pain at the side of his neck, trying to still the shake of his fingers as he remembers the cold _slice_ of the batarang. It barely felt like anything. Until it did. The wave of warmth down his neck, the sudden _pain_ , and he knew. God, he fucking knew.

"Jason?"

He flinches, shakes it off and looks up. Bruce — not Bruce — is back. Glass of water in his hand, stripped down to a black tank-top and sweats. Bare feet. It's not fair how much he looks like Bruce always did after patrol, hair a little messed up from nothing but the rake of fingers trying to comb it into something functional after a night under the cowl, a fading bruise on his left arm, not big, but there. It could be any night of a hundred, Alfred treating some minor cut or checking him out, and Bruce ready to escort him up to bed afterwards.

He clears his throat — immediately realizes what a bad idea that was when pain _slices_ across the side of his neck — and manages a rough, "Yeah?"

Bruce studies him for a moment, and he must see, he must _know_ , but he doesn't say anything. He only steps closer, coming to the opposite side of the cot and offering him the glass of water. "Here. Remember, slowly."

Yeah, because choking with a stitched up throat would go really, really poorly.

"Thanks," he somehow gets out, taking the glass. Both hands, because he doesn't fully trust himself not to drop and shatter it all over the floor. Not with how tired he is, how much he _hurts_.

Fuck it feels _good_ when he takes a sip, though. Cool, smooth water easing the roughness of his throat, sore from smoke and shouts and sobs (and getting fucking sliced apart; can't forget that).

"Prognosis, Alfred?"

He looks up on automatic, but it's quickly obvious Bruce isn't actually speaking to him, even though one of his hands has come to rest at his knee, just barely putting any pressure on it.

"Positive, Master Bruce. No injuries I was unaware of, and it seems our boy—" Jason flinches, he can't help it "—was lucky enough to avoid a concussion. Rest and continued care should see him healed soon enough."

"Good." Bruce's gaze turns to him, hand lightly squeezing his knee. Every touch has been so… so _gentle_. "I know this isn't your home, but I was hoping you'd be willing to stay here while you recovered. You're more than welcome, and I—" Bruce clears his throat, and Jason swears he sees a hint of wetness at the corner of his eyes. "I'd like to take care of you, in memory of my own son."

It's like a punch to the gut. All the force of a fist in a few simple words.

He blinks away fresh tears, swallowing back everything else that wants to come up. He doesn't know how he manages the, "Alright," that comes out of his mouth, but somehow it gets off his tongue. Hangs there in the air as a wholly inadequate response to everything just laid in front of him.

"Thank you," Bruce says anyway, like he doesn't care how weak the answer was. "Alfred, would you…?"

"Of course." A hand touches his arm, draws his attention. "Why don't you finish that glass, and then Master Bruce can help you upstairs? I'll have things ready."

If he talks he's only going to say something else wrong, so he presses his lips together and nods instead, refusing to say anything dumber than he already has.

Alfred's smile is soft and familiar, before the brush off fingers on his arm slips away, and he steps back. He strides away, vanishing around the corner and leaving them alone. Him and Bruce.

"Take your time," the man who's not Bruce says, voice a reassuring, smooth thing that his brain can't help but think of as familiar. "There's no rush."

Not Bruce. _Bruce_. Why does it have to be so damn hard for him to tell the difference? (Why does he _want_ this to be Bruce so badly? It won't change that _his_ Bruce chose the Joker over him. Decided, with one swing of his arm, that a psychopathic, mass-murdering clown's life was worth more than him. More than _him_.)

His eyes squeeze shut, but all that's behind them is the ghost of an unhinged grin and a glint of black metal, echoing a laugh and a _schlick_ of blade through flesh in his ears before he wrenches them back open. There's no comfort in the dark, no comfort in his own mind when the only thing in it is that dingy little room and the glowing, red numbers of a bomb just waiting to go off.

"Jason?"

He blinks, drags his gaze off the wall and back down to where there are studying, blue eyes looking at him. Rich, cool blue, the same ones he looked into for years. Looked up to. The same ones that looked at him with _anger_ , on the top of that church, and not a hint of surprise for who he was.

"Why are you doing this?"

Bruce just looks at him. Studying. Calm. "Doing what?"

The side of his throat burns. "Helping me. Taking me in like this. Why?"

The hand at his knee strokes upwards, gentle pressure up the first inch of his thigh. Nothing changes in the way Bruce looks at him. "You're another version of my son. Why wouldn't I do what I can to help you?"

It can't be that simple. It can't be clean, or easy. There can't be a Bruce that just accepts him, because if there is…

"You don't even know what I've done." He can't hold that gaze. His eyes fall to the cot, his fingers twist together. "What I did to make him—” He tries to grit his teeth, but it _hurts._ Aches and burns, searing across his throat. It's a blade and a flame, smoke in his lungs and fire in his mouth.

Until a hand touches him, cupping his neck, encouraging him to lift his head with the gentle brush of fingers. Bruce holds him, and says as steady as the core of the earth, "Nothing you could do would be worth your father cutting your throat."

His eyes burn. "You don't know that."

It's not pity in Bruce's eyes, but he doesn't know what it's supposed to be, either. Only that Bruce's voice is firm. "Yes I do. Whatever you did, it wasn't worth him trying to kill you."

"No, he doesn't… He doesn't kill. He wouldn't." _Didn't_. Not even Joker. Not even for Jason.

There's a flicker of Bruce's gaze down to his neck, and back up. "Doesn't he?"

It feels like he can't breathe, for a second. It's only dimly that he remembers lying in that alley, the world fuzzing around the edges. The cold in his limbs, the gloved hand at his face. And a _burn_. A _burn_ on the side of his neck that took away his breath, whited out his mind and then took him into darkness.

He swallows. The pain in his neck doesn't tug, or spike. It sears.

"I don't have stitches, do I?" he asks, and feels almost numb with the realization.

Bruce shakes his head, just a fraction. "You never would have survived the trip back. I had to cauterize it, to stop the bleeding."

He… He was bleeding out. He was dying. He would have… died.

"I'm sorry, Jason," Bruce says, oddly distant.

His chest aches. He shakes his head, and it hurts. It _hurts_.

"I'm okay," he hears coming out of his mouth. "It's fine. I already— I knew."

A hand touches his shoulder, squeezing gently. Jason's pretty sure he'd be crying again, if he didn't feel utterly dried out. Drained. Especially when the arm circles around his shoulders, lips pressing to his forehead and the perfect copy of Bruce's voice murmuring, "It's alright, son," against his hair. "I won't let anything else happen to you."

Jason doesn't know that he believes it, but it still cracks something open in his chest. His eyes shut, and he leans into that solidity.

It's fine. It has to be fine.

* * *

"It's not—” Jason cuts himself off before he can finish the statement, turning his head to look around the room.

Not his room. One of the guest ones, freshly aired and with new sheets; he knows the look. No hint of any previous occupant in here, and definitely not some alternate version of himself. It's not the same room he used to have, either. Different location.

"No," Bruce confirms, somehow not even needing him to say the words. He's at the door still, waiting there as Jason stands a few feet in, glancing around. There's a soft clearing of his throat. "You're not my son, and I didn't think it would have been fair to you or to him to pretend that you were."

His throat tightens up, a little. It's good, actually. He thinks. He doesn't know how weird it would have been to step into the bedroom of a fifteen year old, still-dead version of him. Can’t even imagine stepping into his own room, actually. "Yeah, I… Thank you."

It's all familiar. Apparently different universes don't change Alfred's taste in furniture or decoration. It looks just like the ones he used to wander in and out of as a kid, seeing if he could map out all the rooms.

Bruce takes a step closer, coming just in from the doorway. "Get some rest, Jason. If there's anything you need, you can let Alfred or I know.” A hand lifts, settling on his shoulder. It gives one soft squeeze. “Anything at all.”

"Thanks," he manages, rough and quiet. It still feels so entirely inadequate.

It's not really a smile, but there's a small curl of Bruce's mouth, just at the corner, as the hand slips off his shoulder. He turns and leaves, the door shuts, and Jason's… alone. The sudden silence is almost oppressive, weighing down on him the same way he remembers it used to at hom— at the manor in his own world. For all its random noises, for all the strange sounds of an old house, more often than not the manor was _silent_. The nearest person a dozen rooms away through thick walls, way too far for anyone else to hear unless you were shouting.

Jason takes a slow breath, shifting further forward into the room. Just like all the manor's 'guest' rooms, it's still bigger than anything else Jason has lived in during his life. There's a door across the room that he knows leads to a private bathroom, and after a lingering look at the bed he heads there instead. There's an itch in his chest that calls for a shower, but realistically he knows that's not going to happen, not with the bandages wrapped around his neck. He'll settle for peeing and maybe like, just washing his hands and face off. Obviously Alfred — or someone — gave him a wipe-down while looking him over, but it's just not the same as doing it under his own power.

He avoids the mirror as long as he can. Washes his hands, splashes his face — leaning over _hurts_ , but he knows what cracked ribs feel like; he's _fine_ — and dries it off with one of those eternally soft hand towels hanging beside the sink. Then his gaze lifts, and he finds his gaze inevitably drawn to the reflection of the mirror ahead of him.

Skin a paler shade than usual, where it's not damaged by dark, livid bruising. A shadow of stubble on his jaw, matching the dark circles under his eyes, which have reddened from all that crying he did downstairs. His hair's a mess — hours in a helmet, the fight, the explosion… — and there's definitely still traces of soot and little flakes of blood in the crevices of his skin. His blood, probably. No, definitely. And there's the— the stark, white wrap around his throat, No hint of the gash underneath, no blood on that, at least.

He doesn't have any idea what it looks like, he realizes. He felt it happen, but he never got a look at it before this Bruce cauterized it. He has no idea how big it is, how deep, how obvious. Not that he has to know how big it was to know it's going to scar. It's going to be there… forever.

His hands clench on the edges of the sink, and he shuts his eyes. Not that it helps.

A knock startles him out of the glowing green and red nightmare behind his eyes. His head turns automatically towards the door. The door in the bedroom, he realizes belatedly, and starts that direction after a second's hesitation.

He's only just stepped out of the bathroom when the door on the opposite side of the room opens. The man that steps in is familiar, but still not anyone he remotely expected.

Dick. The same black, short hair. The same olive-tinted skin. The same unbelievably blue eyes, flicking over the room once before settling on him. He's in normal clothes, but they look hastily put on, pulled into place and left wherever they ended up. Far cry from the last time Jason saw him, all put together in the Nightwing blues, knee supported by that metal brace and still fighting him as if it didn't matter.

"Jason." A smile cracks Dick's lips. Small; sad, almost.

Right. No brace. No fights. Different worlds.

"Hi," he manages, small and awkward.

"Bruce, he said you were from a different universe. I don't know if there's a version of me over there, but—”

"There is."

He curses himself almost immediately at the silence that follows his interruption. Clears his throat before he thinks about it and winces, his arms crossing. "Sorry, I didn't mean to… Sorry.”

Dick takes a step further into the room, then another after a moment. "It's alright. I take it that you and I don't have the best relationship, in your world?" There's a quick flicker of Dick's gaze down to his neck, and back up, before he can even start to answer. His face pinches a little. "I guess that's probably not the best thing to ask."

"It's fine. We weren't—” He pauses, finds himself at a loss for words.

How to even begin to describe the mess of him and Dick Grayson? Always with such an unattainable legacy to live up to, always in the first Robin's shadow, always trying to fill a costume and shoes never made for him. It wasn't Dick's fault. Not really, anyway. Jason remembers more than a few shouting matches between him and Bruce that he was never meant to overhear, and it didn't take a detective to see that Dick was doing his best to avoid Gotham and Batman and everything it stood for. There are a few good memories, but not enough it could have ever dissuaded him from what he had to do.

"He tried," Jason settles on, after a few moments. "He didn't have time for me, and I didn't last long enough for that to change. It wasn't his fault." The dots connect slightly late, and he rushes to add on, "And he didn't do any of this," with a vague gesture at his torso. Neck.

A little of the frown eases, and then Dick gives a quiet laugh and an actual smile. "Good. I think if any version of me had hurt you I'd have had to go kick their ass, so, probably best he didn't."

Jason blinks. "What? Why?"

For a second, Dick looks actively confused. Then there's something angry that flickers through his eyes, almost immediately followed by a sharp glint of pain. "Jason... Jason was my brother. If there was anything I could do to get more time with him, to have him alive, and with me…?" Dick inhales, shakes his head and then straightens, hands tightening to fists at his sides. "If there was some version of me that didn't appreciate the gift of having you back, he'd deserve to have a little sense beaten into him, far as I'm concerned."

Jason's not sure he's ever had Dick Grayson's temper aimed at _protecting_ him. That's… That's different.

His arms cross, gaze flickering off across the floor. "Yeah, well, I didn't make it easy for him."

His gaze snaps back up when Dick moves closer, crossing the room with only the slightest bit of hesitation in his step. He moves right up to him, and lifts a hand to touch — after just a fraction of a pause, as if to let Jason choose to move away — the top of his folded arms. "Little brothers really aren't supposed to make things easy. Doesn't mean they're not worth it."

His throat aches as he swallows. The touch to his arm is _so_ warm. "I'm not your brother."

There's a tiny quirk of lips. Sad, again. "I know. My Jason never got as tall as you, for starters." A breath, other hand coming up as they lift to touch his shoulders, blue eyes looking him up and down in a lingering sweep. "You did grow up _big_ , didn't you, Little Wing?"

It almost winds him, how hard his breath catches. The nickname hits like a sucker punch to the gut, swinging in out of nowhere to take the breath from his lungs, like he's right back up on that rooftop on one of the proudest nights of his life with the man he was trying so hard to follow in the footsteps of actually approving of him.

Fuck, he'd forgotten how good it felt, having Dick Grayson's approval. Having his _attention._ Fighting him was sort of exhilarating, but Dick never knew who he was and it wasn't the same, being some villain facing off against him. He was back to Bludhaven before Bruce got his proof, and then it…

"I don't know if he's alive," Jason blurts, as he realizes it. It only registered as something to needle Bruce with at the time, but that explosion went off just as he and Bruce were fighting, and Dick was supposed to have been in Bludhaven already. Had he gotten there yet? Did he get out, if he was? (Was there any getting out, from a blast like that?) "He was— A bomb hit the city he was in; I have no idea if he survived. I didn't get the chance to find out."

"Before you wound up here?" Dick fills in. Jason nods. "If he's anything like me, I'm sure he made it. We know how to survive things like that."

Sure, but he's resurrected proof that it doesn't always matter. Sometimes things just… happen. Sometimes there's nothing you can do.

"Yeah," he says anyway, because what else is there to say? There's nothing he can do, either way. He's stuck here.

Dick's hands squeeze his shoulders, just slightly, then let go. "I know you're probably tired. I'll go; we can talk tomorrow."

Jason is, the exhaustion is a thick weight on his shoulders, but he knows what's behind his eyelids. Dick steps back, and before he can strangle it back down he hears himself say, "Could we talk now?" Shit, he didn't mean to— "Maybe you could just… tell me about your world?" he adds on, trying to cover. "About… your Jason?"

There's a moment that Dick looks at him and Jason thinks he's been seen right through. Then his expression softens, and all Dick says is, "Yeah, sure." There's a tilt of his head, towards the end of the bed. "Do you want to sit?"

Sitting definitely sounds good.

When he nods, Dick smiles softly and heads that direction. He follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [You can find my Tumblr here!](http://skalidra.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> [You can find my Tumblr here!](http://skalidra.tumblr.com/)


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